Demons and Savages
by Hrothqual
Summary: Set in the future- or *a* future- of the DC Universe, old villains gather in Gotham Cemetery to commemorate the deaths of heroes they helped to create.


_Demons and Savages_

It was a terrible day for a funeral. The sun which the deceased had known only under a false name, his birth name, shone brightly on Gotham Cemetery. It was one of those rare autumn days where everyone who wore a jacket didn't really have to. Perched on the nearby gravestone of one "Alan Scott," a yellow-breasted robin chirped its happy tune at a joyless occasion. Everyone in attendance, all business associates and wealthy socialite acquaintances of the departed, missed the obvious symbolism of a childhood long passed. Everyone, that is, but the two men on opposite sides of the crowd, who had not spoken to each other since well before the ancient priest delivering a sermon by the graveside was born. As the other attendants shuffled, stifled yawns, and waited for the socially acceptable time to return to their own lives, the two men stood stoically in place, eyes locked on the casket.

"Wallace Grayson was a man who knew well the responsibilities of those born into privilege," the preacher droned. "As chief executor of the Wayne Foundation, Wallace brightened the lives of millions of children…" or perhaps he said something about his contributions to clean energy, or any number of the monumental accomplishments he made during the fifty-seven years he spent in his shallow daytime persona. No one would remember this dull, impersonal store-bought speech by the next day, likely labeled in the funeral home archives as something like "Philanthropist Eulogy #27".

When the priest seemed as if he could speak no longer without collapsing into the uncovered grave himself, the two men aided four others in lowering the casket- each of them had never spoken more than a hundred words to Mr. Grayson in their entire lives. The whole time, the two stoic gentlemen never made eye contact. The _real _funeral, attended by the people who knew Wallace Grayson as he truly was, and not the man he pretended to be, was held in this same location less than twelve hours earlier in the dead of night. But they would have been unwelcome there, so they waited.

And they continued to wait. They waited until every member of Gotham City's high society shuffled off into their self-driving luxury cars, until the priest himself hobbled to the chapel to perform a wedding as he memorized another index card, and until the cemetery workers had completely filled in the burial plot. It all took less than an hour. Finally, the taller and much older looking of the two (although he was actually far younger) walked respectfully around the grave site and towards the other man, who radiated an aura akin to that of an ancient king. In fact, he was several.

"Thirty-nine years," the much younger, but much older looking man said. "That's the second longest anyone has ever worn that costume." He was obviously referring to the deceased. "After Damian Wayne, of course. Did you know he was my grandson?"

"Damian Wayne's father was the Devil himself," the regal gentleman replied in an eerily implacable accent, finally looking back at him. "I suppose that would make you the Creator. "

"No, mother's side, I'm afraid," the other sighed. "And if anyone alive could recognize the being who began time, I guess it would be you."

The regal gentleman chuckled heartily in a voice which at many points in history would bring nations to glory or to ruin, and likely would again many times more. He put a single arm around the older looking man. "It has been far too long, friend."

"It has been far too long since Gotham had a Batman," was the reply. "I'd like to say I had something to do with his reinstitution, but I'm afraid the blame here goes entirely on genetics. Superheroism is a precocious thing, I've learned. Sometimes it skips a generation or two." Tactfully, he pried himself loose from the iron grip of the shorter man. "But you are right. I don't see why we have to limit our social visits to funerals. We've both had an impressive lifespan thus far, comrade. But I don't know how many more Dark Knight Detectives I have left in me. Why, in all these years, have we never tried to take over the world together?"

The regal gentleman smiled. "I've taken over the world before. It wasn't very satisfying. I did it again a few hundred years later to give it another shot, but still nothing. Our purpose became clear to me long ago: we are the eternal antagonists."

"You, maybe. I honestly don't know how many Lazarus Pits I have left."

The regal gentleman took the taller man back under his arm, much to his discomfort. "Ha! You say that every hundred years, and you've barely aged at all since we first met. Sure, you won't live forever, but I alone suffer that fate so no one else has to."

"We should all be so unfortunate," the younger man scowled.

"I mean it," he replied seriously, locking eyes with the slowly aging Egyptian. "Why are heroes born? To counterbalance the injustice in the world, and make it a kinder place to grow old and die in. And why are villains born?"

"Because Man is self-serving by nature," the taller man answered in a deadpan, knowing full –well it was not the answer his companion sought.

"No, you foolish child," the far, far older but slightly younger looking man said. "To inspire the heroes. And it is my job, and my job alone, to provide inspiration for all time."

"You're getting senile, old man," said the younger one, branded by files in the Gotham City Police Department lost long ago to the ages as Ra's al Ghul. "That's circular reasoning."

And at that, the immortal warrior Vandal Savage laughed hardest of all. "Look at this universe, friend! _Everything_ is circular."

With this, the next crowd of mourners flooded into Gotham Cemetery and the Super Villains departed- until the next funeral.


End file.
